


a play of heartstrings (for gods to play at being human)

by Elisye



Series: wake up, birthday girl (it's the end of an era) [1]
Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: 'major character death' bich this game's whole cast is dead, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, no betas or spellcheck we publish this like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: Her specialty isn't in design, isn't in battle, isn't in heart-pounding inspiration or anything she really loves; she doesn't have the ability to spark any kind of magic.What Shikiisgood at, however, is the little details. How to watch for them. The fine craftsmanship of fabric. How to weave a single thread into a foundation for everything else, into a web of neat and vast proportions, no matter how invisible it is at a glance.Yes,she thinks, must think, thinks the only way she knows, for now -I can do this.(It's not like she has a choice.)





	a play of heartstrings (for gods to play at being human)

**Author's Note:**

> HYPE HYPE AND GOD-FUCKING CONGRATULATIONS TO FINAL REMIX BEING OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALSO HI IM BACK WITH MY INDULGENT FUCKERY RIP

 

 

Seven days. That's all you've got, huh?

The thought is clinical. A part of you murmurs to be more emotional about this - you're supposed to be _dead,_ after all! And then the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be the midday sun burning into your retinas at a straight ninety-degree angle, so you're not as dead as you thought you were, but no, no, you're not alive either. People's thoughts filter through your brain, their arms and feet filtering through _you_ , so no.

Even as you squeeze your hands into fists, feeling the pinch of manicured nails into perfect, unbroken skin - no, no matter how it looks. You're not alive. Dying wasn't a dream either.

It feels all so sudden and all so distant. Shibuya goes on merrily around you, an explanation tossed into the air at some point, going in and out your ears.

You should really listen to whoever's being so kind as to explain all of this. But knowing that, even, it's hard to concentrate throughout. This might be shock, you assess, with an ease that is more depressing than helpful to notice, though you don't really understand why you think that.

Regardless, with that unofficial diagnosis in hand, it does give an explanation as to why you haven't started panicking yet. Dead people are usually pretty hysterical when they realise they're not dead, especially after the whole long turmoil of accepting pain and parting. Or at least, that's what the few (read: 1) movies you've watched about dead-but-alive people seemed to say. Even as the man in the black hoodie begins to wrap up his long-winded explanation of what he describes as "the bare-bone basics" - he pauses for a moment to chuckle at his own, awful pun - you don't feel much stirring inside you. You can feel a wave of uncertainty, wonder, determination, but nothing massive, nothing that threatens to swallow you into the depths of some suffocating emotion.

The sea of your heart is calm.

(Too calm. Like the calm before a storm - or are you already in the eye of it?)

 

 

 

 

_I'm doing something wrong._

Neku snorts and brushes past you, his phone out as he reads the mission again, eyebrows furrowed in calculation. He ignores you when you call his name once, twice - shoots you an irritated glare over his shoulder at the third time. You do your best not to crumble right there and then, pushing a smile over your thoughts and your disappointment. _Something's wrong, what am I doing wrong?_

You think that, but your brain has already nitpicked a couple of answers. The Game is stressful. Fighting Noise is scary. You're not good at fighting Noise. You're being a burden. Everything is too much. Death is terrifying. A second death is even more terrifying. Being partners is strange and foreign and uncomfortable. Neku is just being stubborn. You're being stubborn. You're not doing enough. You're not good enough. You're not doing this  _right._

What are you supposed to do? What will make everything better? You consult a flip phone and see your face smiling back.

Two of your faces, really.

There's Eri. There's Shiki. Matching you in appearance is Eri. Matching the truth inside this chameleon's skin is Shiki.

Your fingers trace the flowery border of the wallpaper, a sigh slipping past. Oh, you already know, somewhere deep down - you can try to change, try to pretend, try to  _be,_ but the core of your self, as much as it wants to be someone else, is also too scared of becoming an entirely different person. So, you can't be Eri, not to the very core at least.

You could try to anyway - it would be a lie to say that you never wanted to be Eri, and Neku doesn't know any better - but you can't even get close to being  _like_ her either. Your attempts at mimicking an Eri-like confidence or cheer or charisma aren't right, aren't adequate, not at all. Because if you could truly impersonate your best friend, your partner wouldn't be acting the way he is. Neku would have found you charming, or at least tolerable for his standoffish standards. He would talk. Share his thoughts. Bother listening to you, acknowledging you. He would stop hiding behind his headphones and open up to you and—

He would do all that, while you've been lying through your teeth since day one. While you hide behind pleasantries and friendship and ask for more than what you're worth, what you deserve. 

You clutch your phone a little harder. You can't be Eri, and that's why you introduced yourself as Shiki. You knew this from the start.

But you're still trying to be something you're not.

 

 

 

 

In the end, you realise that you don't have to be someone else to get people's approval - that despite who you are, what you are, even though you can't be the bright and colorful person you want to be, that's still fine. Your honesty is better, the real you is someone beloved. Within a week, you became precious, and that mere thought is enough to make you smile wide and earnest as you disappear back into the living.

You don't worry. Neku will do fine. Everything will be alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Except this isn't an ideal world where everything goes as perfect as it should be and - yes. Everything turns out alright. Shibuya doesn't get burnt to the ground. The people don't lose their individuality.

But you're still here.

Dead.

 

 

 

 

(It's karma, a voice in your head whispers, already sad and resigned and traitorous.)

You shove aside everything that isn't important, isn't necessary, isn't relevant to what's going on right now, and listen to Mr. H explain the fundamentals. 

 

 

 

 

"You think you can do it?"

You hug Mr. Mew tightly. Outside the cafe windows, the sun is tilting away into twilight, twisting shadows in alleyways and coating buildings in depressing amber.

"I don't know." A pause, as you fidget.

Much quieter - "...I don't think so."

Neku leans back in response, hands still wrapped around a half-finished, now cold mug of coffee. Beat is snoring away on a couch in the backrooms and Mr. H has gone out to check something in the city. It's just the two of you now, here, listening to a strange silence mingling with invisible breaths, muffled snoring, and the sounds of a dying day. You don't know how to feel about this - your heart remains mired in its own confusion and denial, desperate to wake up from this long dream. But for a whole week, despite your constant wishing and thinking, day and night, it never happens.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the reality of it all is starting to sink in.

"This is crap." Neku mumbles, staring blankly at the ceiling. You hum, dreary but agreeing.

"Nothing can be done about it, though." The words are hollow on your tongue. You don't want to believe a single syllable. But you say it because that's the truth of things, apparently - whether you like it or not. "Soon... once Shibuya sorts itself out..."

"I sound like an asshole for saying this, but I hope this doesn't work out. Or that Mr. H was lying."

"I wish."

Your lips quirk into a smile, but laughter doesn't follow. You can't muster it. There's nothing funny about this, honestly.

The clock on the opposite wall ticks away. You look up at it in an idle motion, watching it as you have for seven days in a row. One, two, three - the seconds are counted. The minutes are passing. Soon enough, the thin hands have moved into a perfect line - it's six 'o clock. An amazingly precise moment, lasting for less than a second before the clock has to march on and listen to the unstoppable current of the fourth dimension, after length and breadth and height.

You remember this time very clearly. The image of delicate clock hands, pointing in opposite directions, a straight vertical line. The subtle tint of orange on the peach walls, as sunset reflects from a nearby window and tickles the corner of your eye. Neku closing his own eyes and listening to absolutely nothing in his headphones. Beat tossing and turning, eyebrows furrowed as he clutches a pin and a bell close. Cat Street being a quiet corner of a quietening district, unattended and unremembered. Hanekoma frowning as he surveys a world below the rooftops, trying to assess the cracks and the damage burning deep into the concrete - before his head snaps up and aware to a city shifting, crooning, finally ready to shake off a brief and aborted attempt towards singularity.

Yes. You remember this time very clearly. You remember _everything_ very clearly.

It seeps gradually under your skin, opens your ears to the pull of strings, and softly quashes every hope and possibility of return.

It happens, simply.

 

 

 

 

Without being told, you know that this isn't an ideal world - it really isn't, as you eventually see, peeking through the veil separating causality and result - and learn to make do with the fact. You do your best, clumsily grasping concepts and experiences that should have been obtained the more traditional, long-term way, though no one has that sort of time or convenience in stock. The city sure _tries_ to make it seem like things are okay, that everything can function while you figure out how to ride a bicycle without training wheels, but you can feel it the way you are right now.

You can't be lax when you have things that you - and only you - can be fixing.

And like a loose button but much more worse, it's going to drive you mad if you don't tend to it sooner rather than later.

 

 

 

  

So, just like that, just accepting that - your past, your present, your future - everything has cemented into certainty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the furthest fringes of possibility and impossibility alike, you hear the song of souls and pluck the strings of an orchestra. And time goes on. And on and on, everything changing, everyone moving on, on and on and on and  _on._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(why are you still here?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"How many times does this make?"

The words are not for you - not for anyone's ears, really. The barista mumbles curses and musings alike as he concentrates on the task at hand, eyebrows furrowed deeper than you'd like, fingers curling light and heaven's grace around your arm. You try not to bite your lip as your mind wanders and your eyes roam, thinking too much, seeing small things that lead to bigger, more unpleasant reminders.

Like the sour colors on your skin, slowly fading away, but not yet completely healed.

(In the past seventy years, this would be the 5193th time. In the past week, the second time. Today, the first - and hopefully only - time.)

"I'm sorry," you say, without prompt but with insistence. "I really— I should have paid more attention."

"Shiki—" The light dims, the hymn muted though it keeps flowing, swirling around the scrapes and the burns with the glow of moonlight sparkling on fresh snow. Sanae shakes his head at you, not disappointed - never disappointed, even though this is past the point of being tolerable, acceptable, even to you - and resumes healing your injuries. "Don't apologize. Being targeted isn't something you can control."

"I can't. But I can still influence it." And here's the familiar old argument - "At least, if I actually looked like someone with authority - and stronger, someone who you can't just go up to and fight..."

"You say that as if you aren't."

"I'm not, Sanae."

The Producer raises an eyebrow, smiling faintly. Kindly, as always. "In the end, that Reaper didn't get away with what they tried to do. How so?"

"Because..." You made sure they didn't. Quickly and neatly, but brutally. You bow your head a little, not wanting to admit what the man wants you to believe, unable to believe such things in good faith regardless. Just because you survived what was essentially your 5193th assassination doesn't make you as good as your peers, even with the impressive number. You don't match their strength, their knowledge, their guile - you may have gained some of each, enough to scrub away everyone's initial opinions over time, but it's still  _not enough._  If it were, you wouldn't be here, wouldn't find any of this to be routine.

You know, you always tell yourself - you have to be better than this. Even if it means unlearning your wisest lesson, wanting to be someone you're not, twisting the goal to be someone you _have_ to be. You have to stop being such a nuisance to Sanae, at least. From the very beginning, from before it even, he's done too much, far more than what his station truly entails. You need to repay this debt at some point.

(You've long since stopped convincing yourself to be better for your own sake.)

 

 

 

 

Joshua eyes the mannequin behind the glass, looking vain and observant in one as he hums, impressed, at the shimmering dress and his own faint reflection. Interested as he is, though, it isn't any excuse for being unaware and unguarded - you give him one point for that when he turns to your soft footsteps, muffled to nonexistence by the din of the city living itself.

"This brand has quite the potential," he starts, glancing at the mannequin again. "Simple but avant-garde. When did they start their business?"

"A few years ago. It's their only branch."

"Shibuya-born and inspired, hmm. That's certainly worth a bravo or two, Misaki." The Composer smiles, hands tucking into his pockets. Lunch hour disappears with the seconds, everyone rushing to get back to work, their shoulders brushing with the intangible residents of the Underground. Despite this ocean of people around you, their song never-ending, you only feel more and more alone in a way, standing as a ghostly signpost that no one _really_ wants to listen to, in the end. Mr. Mew gets terribly squished in your absentminded hug.

"I will admit, I had my reservations about you."

"As does everyone." You resist rolling your eyes, but you don't hold back on the flatness in your voice; how many times have you had this conversation?

Being the person he is, Joshua catches the exhaustion behind the flatness, already raising an eyebrow and preparing an inquiry. Being the person you are, though, you narrow your eyes and shift your weight from one leg to the other. In between the microseconds, Shibuya stutters, pauses on command, the city quiet and watching, keen to see how the heartbeats between you and him will play themselves.

Your otherworld visitor doesn't stop looking inquisitive, but his attention does flicker elsewhere for a moment, successfully distracted. He tilts his head, listening. "...As curious as I am, I do have to say - you have quite a thorough grasp of the city. What fine manipulation there."

"I just don't like leaving things unfinished, or messy."

"Oh, I know."

Despite the dismissive tone, the smile on his face is a touch genuine, a sweetness aimed at his own thoughts. "I model for you. Or, well, technically speaking, another version of you. She said I had the perfect measurements and looks for it - which, of course, I'm already aware of - but what a darling of her to say so, don't you think?"

You can feel your lips being tugged into something more disgruntled. Not disapproving, because your alternates so far all have an eye for the finer details, so she isn't wrong about her assessment - it's just how and from whom you're hearing this. There's just something incredibly irritating about the deliverance here, and Joshua knows it, considering how his smile has turned into a smirk with a blink of an eye. A small voice in your head remembers Neku, and how right he was in describing his second partner.

 _If he was still alive,_ the voice muses, forlorn - _Neku would have laughed at me and went 'told you so' for sure._

None of the emotions in that thought make it out into the open anywhere. But you do sigh, and hope your acting is good enough that Joshua won't figure out your entire stream of consciousness.

(He doesn't. Thank goodness.)

 

 

 

 

The old lady has returned again today, feeding pigeons at Hachiko.

You settle in the empty space next to her, watching the world revolve at its slow but dizzying pace. People chattering away on their phones, tourists wandering with cameras and shopping bags, a gaggle of children running around the smoothed dog statue in a random game of chase. As crowded as this place is, though, no one comes close to your seat - at a plane above reality, with your current vibe, your presence becomes a natural mass imprint on the minds around you.

In that way, privacy is assured. In this little corner of the world, it's just you, an old lady, and several hungry pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs.

"...What nice weather."

The birds coo. The old lady smiles as she raises her head to the sky - it's a bit cloudy, but the forecast will be sunny all week. Unless you decide otherwise, on a very, very intense whim.

"You should be thankful that the weather is so nice." The lady hums, her audience not so clear, even to you. Slowly, she digs for more crumbs in her paper bag. "I always try to be healthy, but my body likes to remember my age more than I do. My knees have been paining so much, I've been wondering if I could keep doing this."

She gathers a handful of crumbs and scatters them. The pigeons go wild, feathers fluttering as they enact their miniature war. "Thankfully, the worst of it only happens when it's cold and rainy. So today, at least, it should be alright for me to walk around."

Her eyes remain fixed at the top of high-rises and colorful advertisements, almost staring through them, searching but not quite searching. Most certainly wondering, however. You wish you could answer her small questions, to provide some sort of response, but the law is the law. The plane below is not and never will be your true domain of residence.

"Just to be safe," the old lady continues, "I only walked for a little bit. Just around the station, and then back here. If I had more stamina, I would go see Beat, but..."

She shrugs, and spends a moment in silence, just feeding birds.

"Not to say I'm settling for second-best, there's no such ranking among dear ones. But I do have to admit, there is a sort of convenience, if I ever want to... talk, in a way." She laughs. It is such a small sound, the sadness is hard to notice. "We never managed to have a proper conversation, not in the least. But I've still rambled a lot, and ranted at times too. I wonder if that still counts in any way."

A pause. She looks at the birds for a few minutes, not saying anything, just picking her words carefully.

"—Will you tell her what a lovely day it is? To always look on the sunny side of life?"

The pigeons keep their eyes moored to the ground, hunting unblinking. They just want their daily bread for the day, but even if you had a means of saying as much, you wouldn't really have the heart to say it. Nonetheless, the lady finds some sort of promise in them, believing that the birds will pass on her message in some way. She smiles a bit wider as she empties the rest of the bag, covering the birds in an avalanche of crumbs. A bloodless avian massacre follows.

Soon enough, Rhyme pushes herself off the bench, and begins her peaceful walk back home. You watch her go, quiet and unseen as usual.

"...Thank you. I'll try."

 

 

 

 

You work with a decal plastered carelessly on the wooden gates of a cemetery, fingers unraveling the metaphorical threads of the design into nonexistence. You cluck your tongue once the work is done, wondering who put it here, why they put it there, and how to appropriately repay their efforts - this isn't a lighthearted prank in the least. The dead roam the Underground, and the very, _very_ last place they should be seen when mingling with the living is in a god damned  _cemetery._

Frowning deeply, you file away this particular incident for deeper investigation, and decide to return to the more mundane reason you came here. Mr. Mew's old white eyes remember the path very well, your feet weaving past the graves on autopilot. You find yourself in front of two graves labeled for two different families, for two people that were nothing alike and had no excuse to even be friends, sharing nothing except a long ago dream in a pseudo-afterlife. A dream you also played in, though unlike these two, you never had a chance to wake up. And never will.

Instead, one day, someday, you will scatter into the wind, like ash and dust, unable to comprehend what it is to be dead or alive anymore.

You haven't made peace with that fact. But you know it's inevitable and coming, regardless of what you think.

(The world stopped caring about what you think and what you want a long time ago. That - you made peace with, bitterly.)

"It's been a while." You start, eyeing the faintest residues of incense ash on the Bito's grave. Someone came for a visit - not Rhyme, probably another relative. "Have you guys been doing okay?"

They don't reply back. You continue on, anyway, "Things have been pretty hard lately. And I know, I say that all the time, every time I come here - I want to say nothing's happened and mean it, for once. But it doesn't look like anyone knows the meaning of restraint... or anything like that." You sigh.

"I wonder when people will stop coming after me. It's been years and I still get attacked sometimes, all for this. They always regret coming after me in the end - I make  _sure_ of that - but... I just hate it. I hate how they don't seem to learn. How it's gotten easier to deal with."

A crow caws somewhere - it flaps down from the sky and settles on the top of the Sakuraba's grave, looking around, curious as it peers through the frequencies and wonders about you for a moment. You nearly start a pointless staring match with it.

"Doing things in general has gotten easier though, now that I know how it works, more or less... But sometimes, I think a little. I stop and look back and realise how much has changed... Shibuya looks the same as it did years ago, but only if you don't  _look._ There are new buildings, different shops, so many more and less people. When I look closely, nothing... feels... the same. And it's not going to stop - a district can't stay the same forever. It has to change, or else there's no innovation, no Imagination, no life. And— and—"

You feel nails pinching into dead skin. It doesn't hurt, wouldn't hurt at all if you just tore into yourself, but you shouldn't do it, says a small and quiet and naive part of you left over. Slowly, with conscious, deep breaths, you unclench your hands. They hold onto Mr. Mew's worn felt fur with a loose grip, the stuffed toy close to slipping out of arms - much like everything else and everyone else in the world. Noting that, knowing that, you should probably keep a better hold on what little you do have. But it's so easy to feel lost in the luminescent crowds of the city, so easy to be carried away by time and change and what the future entails even as nostalgia tries to keep you chained to shore; the sea is merciless and thoughtless in choosing who to claim into its depths.

"...They say a district reflects its supervisor." Your eyes lift to scan the skyline. A thin row of faraway graves and gleaming glass skyscrapers decorate the ever-filling horizon. It's quiet. "Even if nothing seems to have changed in Shibuya, the truth is, a lot of it has changed. And that means I've changed too."

Were you to step into the Realground, you wouldn't look a day older than the fifteen year old you, who had passed away and left a mourning family, a best friend who lost her dream, and a trio of friendships forged with fire and duress. You can smile and giggle and sew just as well as that dead fifteen year old you - but you also wouldn't hesitate to commit what is essentially murder. People live and people die, it's just a  _thing_ about the universe.

When you had first realised this, your growing apathy, you were so afraid. It was yet another dramatic change, from you who loathed hurting others to a you who was starting to become comfortable with it. To a mindset that could treat people - their hopes and their feelings and their very lives - as nothing more than means and statistics and malleable strings to manipulate. It all came down to what good people were for. What were they good at? What were they bad at? What worth did they have to you? Would they further the growth of the district? In what way then? _Except people aren't just tools to be used!_ \- your heart yells, as it shrinks.

—in the end, as with most things, you accepted it. Had to. You have a job to do.

Another crow appears, landing on the Bito's grave. It cranes its head at you and the other crow, before turning to a stranger walking down the path. You don't give any hint to having heard or noticed them, letting them walk up to you with lazy eyes and fingers tugging absently at the plastic around a new lollipop.

"Feeling sentimental today, Boss?"

"If being at a cemetery means just that, then the same goes for you."

"Heh, alright, alright." Kariya raises a pair of surrendering hands, smiling wryly at your clipped words. "Won't pry."

You refrain from rolling your eyes and raise an eyebrow at him. "You haven't really answered the question of the day here, you know."

"What I'm doing here? Gee, after respecting your privacy and all..."

"You and I know that you don't have family or friends to be visiting. Dead _or_ alive." It's a little blunt, but it's a fact nonetheless. The Reaper doesn't react to what would be a painful jab for some, just shrugging in response - though you don't miss the split-second twitch in his wings before he tightens the marionette strings of his carefree attitude. Hm.

He sighs in a slightly dramatic fashion, looking as if he were giving up on something. "Well, good to know you're in a happy mood right now. Could lighten up some more, though."

"That would mean lightening my work load." You definitely don't hesitate to roll your eyes now. "Feel like becoming Conductor, Kariya?"

The man makes a face. You swallow down the urge to snicker, but don't manage to hide your amusement. "Thought so."

"This is blackmail."

"Technically, it's extortion." You shrug. "And not my fault that you hate rising up the ranks."

"It's comfy where I am. And not my fault you haven't picked out a Conductor so far."

Kariya finally unwraps his lollipop, stuffing the plastic into a pocket - you would have given him more than just the stink-eye for littering in a cemetery - and idly reads the names on the graves. If he recognizes any of them, he doesn't show any outward sign of it. "How long has it been anyway? I don't think any district's gone without a Conductor for as long as you're pushing."

"I plan on setting a world record."

"For smartest decision ever?"

You smile wide and sweet. "Do you want to be an Officer starting tomorrow?"

"No thanks, ma'am."

You turn back to the graves, feeling a faint breeze pick up. Now would be the time to say your prayers proper, to make some real offerings besides mere words. To contemplate the meaning of talking to lifeless fixtures, considering you're the one who processed their deaths, who personally scattered their souls into floating nonexistence. But with the orange-haired Reaper slouching next to you, clearly waiting for your full attention to be paid onto whatever concern he has in coming here (and it has to be something major, if _Kariya_ is the messenger), it seems like the luxury of choice is escaping you again. You sigh before you can stop yourself.

"...Alright." Your footwork is quick and light - you slip past the Reaper, who falls into stride next to you after a moment. With your sudden leave, the crows caw loudly, disturbed and annoyed in one, before flying away. Though you sympathize with the crows, unfortunately, business has to take precedence now. "What's the matter?"

"Well. For a summary - the GM's a lunatic."

You eye the man for a second. "Does this have anything to do with all the unlicensed decals I've been seeing?"

"You're not wrong." Kariya rolls his lollipop in his mouth, using the quiet to organize his thoughts. "Seems they told some of their Reapers to go put them up in places. Not sure if it's at random or not though. And of course, that ain't all."

" _Great._ " Your tone is horribly dry. "Do you know why?"

The Reaper smiles. It's a bit mirthful in that it isn't. "From the looks of it, they got an ego boost from being picked by you. They're doing everything they can to impress you."

"Well. I'm definitely impressed." The two of you walk out the gates. The peace of the cemetery begins to leave you, replaced with the lively noise of a city in constant motion. Kariya stretches his wings as you absently pull apart the lines of a music sheet, wrapping the chords around you like a brilliant, twinkling shawl. "—Causing all this trouble is impressive in an unimpressive way."

He laughs, and sadly, doesn't choke on his lollipop. "Want me to carry a message for you?"

"No." You tilt your head, tapping into the city's awareness, tracing the heartbeats of mayhem and magic along the streets. Ugh, now that you can see the full extent of things, this is such a  _mess—_ "Talking in person tends to do the job better."

The Reaper simply hums an agreeable note, relieved. He probably didn't actually want to do any work for you. "If you say so. Anything I should know, by the way?"

"Let the Game continue as usual and don't add to the problem. Tell the same to anyone else on duty."

"Gotcha, Miss Composer."

Light breathes from your skin, stars glowing soft as they become pinned like pearls in your hair. You step forward with a familiar ease and confidence, stepping into the leylines of song hidden across the earth, and descend into the heart of the city's score. History writes its chronology and the rhythm of what will be yet another day ebbs and flows, washing over you.

Like clockwork, you move on, and do what you've been left here to do.

 

 


End file.
